


Whiplash

by Kinalara



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grimmons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinalara/pseuds/Kinalara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've always been snippy at each other- but the situation has never snapped like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiplash

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU of a friend's on Tumblr- Grif and Simmons share an apartment.  
> Misadventures ensue.

Your name is Dick Simmons, and neither one of you wanted this to happen.

 

There isn’t very much that you remember from that night other than the heavy buzzing in your skull and the way the earth swayed underneath you. You don’t drink much often, so when you do drink, the reaction it causes makes for interesting and, in this certain case, painful, regrettable results. The little that you do remember, however- other than the warped effect the alcohol had on your surroundings- all surrounds a single subject matter.

Unfortunately, that subject is Dexter Grif.

 

You remember his laughter- thick and heavy in the air like humidity. It was a stark contrast to your own breathy gasps which, often hid by a hand, now escaped freely. On occasion you would snort and this would send the two of you off on yet another tangent. Even now you haven’t the slightest clue what the two of you were so tickled about.   
You remember his tan skin darkened across his round face and his wide, stupidly endearing grin. You remember how much closer he had gotten, the two of you leaning on each other's shoulders for support as you attempted you catch your breaths. You remember the heat your bodies made when you were so close. You remember turning your head to look at him- remember catching sight of his deep blue eyes- blue like the ocean- from underneath the sandy-blonde, messy locks.   
And, without a doubt, you remember everything that happened next.

His hot breath billowed over your lips as he leaned dangerously close and paused, the two of you staring into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity. But the eternity came to a sharp and sudden  end when his lips and yours clumsily collided. They slid cautiously across each other- messily, slowly. After a few moments of light brushing, your lips increased their pressure. Mouths opened and moved sloppily without any real aim except to outdo each other’s movements. Always competitive, the two of you. Your body moved without your say, moving around so that you faced him completely. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in closer to increase the pressure- getting used to the feeling of his lips and oddly pleasant heat between you- as well as the windstorm that had whipped up in your stomach and was wreaking havoc. He returned the favor, turning himself to face you. However, to your surprise, Grif’s hands were not satisfied with remaining still in his lap, or even on your shoulders. They played at the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and across your skin- to which you gave a surprised gasp.   
But that was when he took it too far. And you never saw it coming.

After a few moments of playing at your chest, his hand to a swift dive straight down. Until you felt his fingers slipping into your shorts. That was when the sirens screamed to life in your head.

What the fuck?

What the _fuck?!_

_What is he doing?!_

  
  
  


Reality hit you like a splash of cold water and your only thought was _‘get off get off get OFF!’_. And with self-defense your only thought, you had no room in your head for the notion that what you were about to do would have dangerous repercussions. You untangled your arms from Grif’s shoulders and yanked your face away from his.  
He barely had a chance to be confused before you promptly nailed him in the jaw.

Grif, already unbalanced from the considerable amount of alcohol in his system, was almost sent flat onto his back. He caught himself on his right hand before he hit the ground, and remained suspended as he stared at you with his wide ocean eyes. There was dead silence between the two of you- besides the rough breaths you were both taking from a combination of the kiss and the punch you had just dealt. At that moment- all Grif seemed to be able to do was stare at you and catch his breath.

Unfortunately, things aren’t always as they seem.  
In a flash, Grif’s face turned from horror and confusion to a sort of rage you had never seen on the lax man’s face before- and the look alone was enough to terrify you. Then he leapt for you- the much larger, heavier man landing with full force on top of you and knocking all of the air from your lungs. His fist connected with your cheek. Your jaw. Your chin. Your chest. Oh fuck- you couldn’t just lay there, Grif could destroy you if he wanted to   
So you started struggling against him, managing to get of your hands out from underneath him and slamming it against his face- right over his right eye. You start pushing and shoving at him, all the while wiggling in an attempt to free your legs so you might kick him off. Another slam to his eye shook the bigger man’s balance a bit, and you were able to flip him off of you. But he wasn’t totally down. Just as you were on your feet, he was as well. You saw him advancing on you and you swung- catching his chin. It didn’t stun him as much as you had hoped, for now he continued to come at you, throwing another punch and grabbing your shoulders. You staggered backwards, trying to push against your attacker but finding you simply lacked the brute force Grif had. Suddenly you felt your legs hit the small round table that rested beside the couch and in an instant you were both on the ground again- the table toppled and possibly broken a few inches away. And you were back to square one again- mindless punches amid snarled curses and words you didn’t understand all being slung at you at once. You try to grab for his fists but you find your strength failing you and your head buzzing horridly loud- like TV static. Everything is buzzing and pain and yelling.

Until suddenly it isn’t.

Grif is no longer on top of you.

 

The next part is a bit fuzzy in your memory. As you were on your back and in too much pain to sit up, all you could see was the ceiling. The rest of the commotion was relayed to you through your ears. There was shouting- two voices, one of them undoubtedly Grif’s, the other you were too numb to decipher. The words also fell on buzzing ears, so you still can’t recall anything that was said. After about a solid few minutes of yelling there was the sound of drawers being opened and slammed shut, and then the very slight sound of jingling that could just barely be heard over the sounds in your ears- keys? You think they were keys. Then there was more yelling and you heard a metallic clang as the jingling objects hit a hard surface of some sort- a table, possibly. Then you hear the door open and slam shut, followed by something appearing in your blurred vision- pale skin, a shock of bleach-blonde hair. And then nothing. You blacked out.

Never before have you been so thankful of Donut’s uncanny ability of breaking into your apartment.

This was last night.

  
Now you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ground and waiting for the medication to sooth your pounding head. You have come to think Grif had some sort of secret vendetta against the left side of your face, considering the condition he left it in. Your left eye is bandaged, as is the left side of your cheek, and your lip is swollen on the same side. The right side of your face isn’t without mark- a large blue bruise is spread from the corner of your eye half-way down your cheek. Your knuckles on both hands are bruised, and you have the sneaking suspicion that your right thumb is broken. Donut, whom you had spoken to earlier this morning, informed you that he had panicked, and merely wrapped you up with what he could find instead of taking you to the hospital. He quote, “Didn’t know how to handle them”. In hindsight you don’t totally mind- you could take yourself soon enough. And so the help Donut provided was appreciated. For the most part at least.   
Him being the only one that came to your rescue and possibly the only reason your injuries weren’t worse didn’t abolish the fact that Donut was a horrible nurse.   
The bandages were loose and you doubt he properly applied any medicine to the wounds before wrapping you up. Well, it’s not like you live next to a pharmacist or a doctor.  
  
Now a combination of curiosity and dread take over and you, painfully, pull yourself to your feet. The pills you just swallowed have begun to sink in and make you sway a tiny bit as you make your way out of your room and approach Grif’s. The door is closed- same as it had been that night. But perhaps....  
You slowly reach for the handle, reminiscent of a protagonist in some cheesy horror flick, and pause before you nervously wrench it open.  
Empty. You can’t tell if you’re disappointed or relieved.   
You close the door back a little too carefully- as if he could possibly tell that you’ve opened his door when you haven’t even stepped foot in the room- and then proceed back to your room.  
You make it about as far as the couch before the dizziness kicks in. You are forced to sit down, loosely gripping your head and squeezing your eyes shut. You take deep breaths to attempt to steady yourself before opening your eyes again and allowing them to survey the room.   
You’re amazed that the two of you didn’t break anything more than the table- which was indeed broken, one of the legs snapped in half and lying to the side of it. With both Grif’s weight and your weight it’s astonishing the piece of furniture didn’t just crumble.   
You wince as the memories flood you again- Grif on top of you, punching and punching and not letting up. You’ve never seen him that angry before. But now you wonder- was it really all anger? Or was it from the astonishment at what the two of you had just done? You would believe either one- and honestly blamed him for neither.   
It was then that you were ripped from your thoughts by the door handle jiggling. You turned your head to look before giving a sigh.   
“Donut- the door is unlocked- you don’t have to break in.” You call out, voice holding a bit more amusement than you would have liked. After the previous night, you can’t bring yourself to totally hate the habit anymore. You turn your attention to the ground again as your head gives a throb- making you wince. The door opens, but after a few moments without Donut’s voice, you force yourself to look up. “Dude, you’ve broken in so many times and now you suddenly have manne-”  
  
Grif stands in the doorway.

Any expression you previously had melts away to a wide-eyed, horrified stare. The pain in your head is suddenly forgotten- as is the rest of your body, and the room. You just focus on him. And the sudden irrational feeling of complete terror that is coursing through you. You have never been afraid of Grif before. Never. Not the fat, lazy slob that shared your apartment, ate all the food, hogged the TV with his nonstop video-game playing. The one that you often laughed and joked with, that would accompany you in your escapades of staring out the window and judging the people that walked by. The one that you had come to occasionally call your closest friend.  
But now you are.

You stare at eachother for what feels like hours until Grif shuffles his feet uncomfortably and clears his throat. “...It’s uh....typically locked.” He mutters, now looking away from Simmons. “...You typically lock it.”  
You swallow hard and take a few seconds to gather your words.  
“....Yeah.”  
Poetry.  
  
Now Grif closes the door behind him and makes his way into the kitchen. “...We got any ice cream left?” He asks, voice still a bit strained from awkward emotion, but seeming to wind down. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow incredulously.   
“Grif, it’s like seven o'clock.” You reply basely, turning around to watch him. He’s looking through the freezer himself, possibly not content with waiting on your answer.   
“Yeah, and?” He responds impatiently, reaching in and shifting the frozen meals around to search for his prize.  
“And? It’s dinnertime.”  
“Icecream is dinner.”

“Oh my God, Grif. No it isn’t!”  
“Who says?” He gives a dorky grin as his hand finds what he’s looking for and pulls the container out, setting it on the counter before he dives back into the freezer. What- one container of icecream isn’t enough?  
“Everyone, Grif!” You respond, voice more stable and loud now- normal.   
“Well, everyone is wrong.” Grif speaks as if the statement is common knowledge and continues to search for- good God what else could he possibly need?!  
“What the hell are you looking for now, fatass?? Isn’t one carton enou-”

You’re silenced as Grif tosses something towards you and you reflexively reach up and catch it. It’s freezing cold to the touch- not surprising for something that’s been in the freezer- but it doesn’t feel like a food product. You turn it over in your palms to get a look at it.  
It’s one of those weird liquid ice-packs that came in the blue package. You’d forgotten you even had those. Something in you stirs as you quickly register what this is for, and you can’t stop yourself from giving Grif an extremely embarrassing puppy-dog face on instinct.   
He looks at you a moment, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. He closes the door and moves on to the cupboards, pulling out a bowl.   
“Hungry?” He asks you without looking, beginning to spoon some of the ice cream into the bowl but not closing the cabinet.   
The thought of eating anything at the moment makes you nauseous, and so you shake your head and decline.  
Grif shrugs and closes the cabinet, taking his bowl and moving over to the couch with you. He sits far enough from you to leave a significant gap.  
You turn to him and frown. “You didn’t put the icecream back. “ Your eyes narrow, “Or even put the lid back on.”  
Grif shrugs as he pulls the remote out from under the seat cushions. “I’ll let the maid do it.” he mutters nonchalantly.  
“We don’t have a maid, Grif.” You respond exasperatedly, “We’ve never had a maid- you don’t have maids in apartment buildings!”  
“We have a maid.” Grif continues, now turning on the television and proceeding to flip the channels without bothering to wait long enough to see what was on any of them.  
“Oh really?” You challenge, “And where would she be?”  
“You, dumbass.” He remarks, looking over and giving you the biggest shit-eating grin you have ever seen, “Now get to it Frenchie.”  
You grit your teeth, seething. He was right, though. He damn well knew that you weren’t about to let the ice cream just sit there and melt all over the place- you were too much of a neat freak for that. So now you get to your feet.   
And almost immediately the floor drops out from underneath you.

 

You’re falling for about a second when you feel arms around your midsection. The hold is rough and awkward, but it’s keeping you up. You feel sick and dizzy. Your head is numb. Your chest is numb. Everything is numb. You dumbly turn your head to look at Grif, who is giving you one of the most pitiful looks you have ever seen on his face. But as soon as he notices you looking at him, it’s replaced with one of almost annoyance.  
“Fuck dude, what kinda shit are you on?” he mutters, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. It doesn’t totally work.   
“...Painkillersss...” You hiss out, voice tired, garbled and worn, “...Lotsss....of painkillerss...”   
Grif can’t hide the wince that comes when you start speaking, and so he tries to compensate by insulting you. “You fucking idiot- why didn’t you go to the hospital or some shit.”   
You blink and shrug. About all you can manage at the moment.   
Grif grunts and sighs, moving so that he has a better hold on you. As he assists you in walking back to your room, you take a better look at his face. It’s not without disrepair- he’s got a slight black-eye and a big bruise on his chin. There’s a cut on his upper lip as well.   
“....Fffuck...lookss...like I got’chu pretty good...” You slur, finding that your words are almost not yours at all and your mind begins to cloud over.  
“Shut the fuck up.” Grif grumbles- and this time it isn’t a lax tone. It’s menacing- like a warning.   
Stop bringing it up.

He sits you on your bed and just stands there for a moment. Staring at you. As if he isn’t entirely sure of what to do next. You don’t give him the time to plan his next move- instead making it under the covers yourself. You plop your head on the pillow and stare back at him for a solid five or so minutes. After that he leaves the room and you allow yourself to be swallowed by black.

  
The next day, the two of you go about your normal business. You work, eat, bicker, hang out, and joke like normal.   
That night fades into memory, and neither of you dare to mention it.  
  



End file.
